


The Thing With Feathers

by Marked_by_moonlight



Series: The Pack Survives [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Badass Sansa Stark, Happy Sansa Stark, Past Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, R Plus L Equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-17 07:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17556236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marked_by_moonlight/pseuds/Marked_by_moonlight
Summary: Sansa Stark wakes, and sees her family.ORSansa’s point of view from Chapter One Of The North Remembers





	The Thing With Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> I’m planning on this being an interconnected series of One Shots, from the other Starks POV’s about North. 
> 
> The Title is from a poem by Emily Dickenson.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own A Game Of Thrones, A Song Of Ice and Fire, or any related work. I am not making money off of this fic. This is for entertainment purposes only.

All Sansa remembers at first is biting cold and pain. A scream tears itself from her throat, the furs tangled round her limbs. Her body is slick with sweat, her hair damp and matted to her forehead.

She rolls off the bed and sees Arya, her fierce sister gripping a rather long hairpin like a knife.

She wedged herself between the bed and the dresser, curling into a ball. Sansa was good at not being seen, at slipping into the shadows. Not as good as Arya Underfoot of course, but enough to survive.

She didn’t know what was happening, or where she was. The grey stone room was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t recall it. The door to the room burst open, and a man ran in.

Arya launched herself at him with a screech. They wrestled for a few moments, the man trying to use his strength to his advantage. But her wild sister was often called more wolf than girl for a reason, her teeth bared and ready to snap. 

The pounding of boots on stone, echoed round the corridor. Two small boys ran in, she distantly thought they looked a bit like Robb and Jon.

But her brother was dead. He had a Wolf’s head now. The wrought bronze crown tilted on his head.  
Sometimes Sansa thought she saw his ghost wandering the grounds. Just as Father haunted the crypts with his sister.

But Jon was grown. Tall, and lean and fierce. Alive and hale. It made no sense for a boy who looked like him to be here. She felt fear wind itself through her belly like a vine. Her body felt small, like a child’s. Not of a woman grown. Her breasts were nonexistent, her hands and feet small and pale.

Her nightdress floated loosely around her. She distantly heard the boys speaking, telling Arya to stop, that it was Father, that this was real.

Her gaze cleared, and sharpened, turned to the man who stood at the center of the room. His hair was a long, scraggly mouse brown, flecked with grey. His eyes gleamed pale grey in the moonlight. 

Suddenly, she was reminded of Joffrey, and that sickening day upon the parapets. The smell of rotting flesh, shit, and unbearable heat filling her nostrils.

Of her Lord Father’s rotting head upon a pike.

She stands gracefully, no longer a timid child, but every inch a Queen. 

Her legs are smaller, so she steps lightly up to the man who wears her Father's face.

‘It is him’ she thinks. The breath leaves her lungs as fast as an arrow, the world feels as though it is spinning on its axis. 

Her honorable, noble father. Alive.

The other children in the room are her siblings, she realizes. The thought making lightning arc down the ridges of her spine.

She feels dizzy, and breathless, as though she has drunk too much wine. And suddenly Bran is in the doorway, a reflection of Robb, walking on two feet.

Distantly, she thinks that she is shaking. 

The little bird that had long died along with her family sprung to life in her chest. It’s songs filling her being with light. 

‘They are here’ she thought. ‘If this is a dream, I have no wish to wake. For my family is here, and whole.’


End file.
